In That Quiet Earth
by RachelDalloway
Summary: In 1930 Jack tells what he thinks is his and Rose's story, every twist and turn from 1912 on. What he doesn't realize is, it isn't over yet.
1. Chapter 1

_Seattle, Washington_

_1930_

Celia circled the teacup with her hands. It had long since grown cold. Honey lined the bottom of the cup in a congealed mass; a thick film covered the tea's surface. She didn't notice any of it. The unanswered questions that had lurked in the back of her mind for the past month threatened to engulf her. She had bit her tongue—literally, once—to keep from asking Jack for an explanation for his aimless lifestyle, for the child he let run wild. He didn't owe her any explanations, did he? They were little more than acquaintances. And yet the moment he appeared in the kitchen they all came tumbling out, one after another, like a set of matroyshka dolls.

Jack listened silently, his expression never changing. When she finally stopped to draw a fresh breath he poured a fresh cup of tea and slid it across the table to her. Celia accepted it gratefully, though she was unsure what the gesture meant. He folded his hands in front of him on the table. Not for the first time did she find herself studying his hands to avoid studying his face.  
>Though that, in its own way, was worse.<p>

When he spoke it was a simple, "I'm not her father."

Celia pursed her lips. "What?" she said. Jack rolled a pencil between his fingers. His blue eyes studied the grains in the table. _He really is beautiful, _she thought, a sigh escaping from her throat. He looked up but ignored it. "I'm not her father," he said again. "It's kind of simple."

It took Celia a moment to find her voice. "Where's her mother?"

He dropped the pencil. His tone became clipped. "She's in the Père Lachaise." Celia's eyes widened at the meaning of his words. "So she's—"

"Yeah," he said, cutting her off. His chair scraped the floor as he stood up. He swallowed a wince as a sharp pain shot through his leg. "Her mother's dead, and I'm not her father. That what you wanted to know?"

"Don't be angry. I didn't ask because I wanted to upset you." She motioned for him to sit down. "There's no reason to go."

Jack eyed the chair briefly before sitting down. He didn't have to move for Celia to notice the heavy air of restlessness gathering around him. He kept his eyes level with hers, waiting for her to speak. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize…it just doesn't seem like an appropriate life for a girl her age. My concern is for Cosette—you must understand that, whatever ill will you may feel for—"

"Ill will?" Jack said sharply. "For who?"

"For her mother, first off," Celia said patiently. Jack stared at her. Without warning, he laughed. "I don't see what's so amusing," Celia said, clearly annoyed. "You obviously don't like this woman. You never speak of her. I had to force the fact that she's dead out of you."

"And you think that's because I don't like her?" Jack was incredulous. "That word….that word doesn't begin to explain how I feel about her. You think that because I don't talk about her…What would I say? Really. What would I say?" He didn't give Celia time to answer. "And why would I keep her daughter?"

"Yes, why isn't she with her father?"

"I'm not sure her father knows she exists," Jack said. "And I don't care either way."

"But if she isn't yours what right do you have to her? Shouldn't she be with her family? Shouldn't her family be informed of her existence?"

"You're assuming a blood relative and family are the same thing," Jack replied, moving to leave. "And they're not."

"So you think you're the best person to take care of her, is that it?" Celia followed him to the door. Her voice rang out accusingly. "How can you? The child never had a stable home until a few weeks ago. She's ignorant—"

"She is not ignorant!"

"Intellectually gifted though she may be, she's ignorant as to what being a girl entails."

"Maybe she should be ignorant about that," Jack said quietly.

"Honestly, do you hear yourself? You sound—" Celia stopped short as Cosette rushed into the room. Her shoes were untied. Her dress was smudged. Her dark red curls tumbled freely down her back, heedless of the purple ribbon hanging from one side. "Cosette, what _have_ you been doing?" Celia asked.

"Climbing."

Celia shot Jack a disapproving look. "Climbing?" she said. "At your age? Don't you think there are better things a girl of ten could be doing?"

"I think I could be climbing better," Cosette replied. "But I know you don't mean that."

"That's right," Celia said. "Of course I don't. And what do you need to climb better for?"

"What do I need to sew better for?"

Celia shot Jack another look. A shadow of a grin lingered about his lips. "You could mend the tears in your dress," Celia said with barely suppressed irritation. "There are enough to keep you occupied all day."

"If I mend my dress that means I have to wear my pants," Cosette pointed out. "I don't have anything else." Celia frowned. "But of course, since you don't want me to wear them, I guess it has to stay the way it is." There was something in her tone, the use of politeness as a veil perhaps, that made Rose's voice ring in Jack's ears. Cosette wore Rose's impassive expression; her eyes glowed with the same silent laughter. "You should do it," he said. Cosette looked up at him in surprise. "You mean it?" she asked.

"Yeah. How else are you going to learn to sew up people? It's the same thing. And pants rip too."

He held Celia's gaze until after Cosette's footsteps faded. "She doesn't know," he said.

"You haven't told her?"

"Would you suggest I do?"

Celia shook her head. "No, I suppose not," she said. "Without anyone to take her you would just be upsetting the child needlessly. But won't you reconsider—"

"No," Jack said firmly. "I've never considered it."

"I don't understand why just mentioning it upsets you so much, or why you're suddenly so tight-lipped. It's a perfectly reasonable question. You're a single man with a young child—seemingly with no home, no connections at all—why wouldn't I eventually ask about her mother? About where you came from?" She sighed. "Jack, I've tried to keep quiet, but I can't have you and that child in this house unless you give me some explanations."

"Fair enough, I guess." Jack dropped into the nearest chair, displeasure written on his face. "Or we could go," he added. "Staying forever was never my plan."

"That's nonsense. Your leg isn't even healed yet, not completely. You're still limping," she said matter-of-factly.

"I already limped."

Celia drew herself up to her full height. "Fine. It doesn't matter to me whether you cause yourself unnecessary pain. But it does matter what you do with that child, and I'm not going to be satisfied until you explain to me just why you think her family aren't fit to take care of her but you—a vagabond—are."

Jack chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "I have heard that so many times…" A faraway look came into his eyes. "It was her mother they were talking about at first." Celia eagerly leaned forward as Jack, her presence already forgotten, began to speak again.


	2. Chapter 2

"After the sinking," Jack said, "I stayed in New York for awhile. I didn't have any money or anywhere I really wanted to go, so I drank the coffee they gave me at the dock and took the coat they offered. I wasn't cold, but I didn't know how to say that. I was so far beyond cold…" He shook his head. "I got a room for the night for free because I was one of the survivors, but even then things were still sorted by class. Still, it got me in out of the rain."

Celia dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "She wasn't dead," she said, more to reassure herself than to ask a question.

"No. She wasn't dead. But I didn't know that." He lit a cigarette. "When I didn't find her on the _Carpathia_ I thought she was dead. Though maybe it's more I _hoped_ she was."

Money had always been easy to come by, at least in very small amounts. Jack had never tried earning more than what he needed to keep himself alive from one day to the next, and that hadn't changed. He would have slept outside in the park if there weren't police sweeping it every night, using sticks instead of manners to clear out what the reformers called "the unfortunates."

"I wasn't ready to leave New York," he told Celia. "But I was restless enough to keep moving from room to room. Things just didn't feel right. Something had changed. _I_ had changed."

Jack realized the key to his room was still on the bedside table after three and a half blocks. He stopped and turned around, swearing under his breath, but he didn't go back. He turned on his heel and kept walking, hands jammed in his pockets, sketch book tucked under his arm. His feet clattered against the sidewalk. There wasn't anything in the room he needed. Everything he owned, with the exception of a shabby wool coat, was either in his hands or in his pockets, and who needed a wool anything in June? Maybe he would go back. Maybe he wouldn't. It mattered about the same either way.

It was amazing the way people stopped seeing him once he bent over a fresh piece of paper. He leaned back in an empty doorway and let himself fall away—his voice, his thoughts, everything he felt and everything he refused to feel flowed into the drawing. He only caught glimpses of the people as they passed, but a glimpse was all he needed. The lines were quick and dark. Shapes emerged beneath his hands with only a few strokes. At first glance they seemed to have no faces, just smudged lines thrown together, but somehow the lines came together to form something heartbreakingly beautiful.

He was drawing the best that he ever would, and he knew it. These were the drawings that would make his name, if his name was ever to be made.

"But that didn't happen," Celia interrupted. Jack leaned his chin on his wrist and smiled. "Are you sure?" he asked. Celia hesitated. "Go on," she said.

"Thank you. I went back later that afternoon, figuring that since I'd already paid for the room it would be crazy to just leave…."

There was a new man at the front desk. He was young, with hair so blonde it was nearly white. His eyes were watery and grey. He stared at Jack when he asked for the spare key to his room. "Doesn't your wife have it?" he said shoving a small silver key across the desk. Jack snatched the key without bothering to ask what he meant.

It didn't matter how hard he twisted or to which side, the lock wouldn't budge. Jack jiggled the knob, but to no avail. "Damn it," he muttered. He stepped back and prepared to try kicking the door open when he saw the number printed on the key: 13. He was in room 3.

Jack glanced at the clock. "It's time for dinner," he said. Celia waved away his comment. "Everyone can get their own tonight," she said. "What happened next?"

"I'll tell you after dinner," he said as Cosette bounded into the room. She held her dress in the air like a triumphant flag. "I did it!" she cried. "There's not a tear left."

Celia sighed. "Fine," she said. "Tell me after dinner." She glanced at the clumsy, uneven stitches. "Yes dear, the tears are gone, but the sewing itself is atrocious."

Cosette flopped into an empty chair. "I suppose I'll do better when it's people I'm sewing up," she said. Celia winced. "Why are you so enamored with wounds?" she asked. Cosette glanced at Jack before reaching for his cup of tea. "Because I'm going to be a doctor," she said between gulps. "And when there's another war I'm going to go out on the field and treat the wounded."

"Don't you mean you'd like to be a nurse?" Celia said. Cosette shook her head. "Why would I want to hand someone things when I can be the one getting handed things?"

"I don't understand half the things you say," Celia said. She buttered three pieces of bread and sprinkled sugar on top. "But here, go eat outside," she said handing them to Cosette. Her eyes lit up. "You want me to eat _that_? _Outside?_" She leapt out of her chair and ran out the door, her footsteps echoing like gunshots. Jack watched her go with an amused smile. "That eager to hear the rest, huh?" he said.

Celia shoved a sandwich at him. "Don't say a word about how irresponsible I'm being. Just go on with it."

Jack chewed slowly. "The stitching isn't that bad," he said. Celia rolled her eyes. "It's awful," she said. "For her first time sewing even, it's awful. And she thinks she'll be able to sew up live humans, beings that can scream and thrash about when the needle plunges into them? And I know you don't discourage that line of thinking."

"Why should I? And she'll get better if she works at it. I wouldn't worry about her wanting to be a doctor too much though. Six months ago she wanted to be an aviator."

She pretended not to hear him. "What happened next?"

"Where was I? Oh, the key. You know, I didn't have a reason to go up to that room," he said thoughtfully, "And I wasn't gonna, but then when I was on the stairs I turned and started walking up instead of down…."

This time the key turned easily. Jack held his breath and slowly pushed open the door. His heart began to thud, though he didn't know why. _Doesn't your wife have one? _rang in his ears. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight spilling in through the large windows. A large, wrought iron bed was pushed against the wall beneath the windows. A small figure lay in the center, wrapped in blankets. Red curls covered the pillow.

Rose's sigh as she rolled over broke the spell. Jack stumbled backwards, falling into the doorframe and dropping the key. She jumped up, bleary-eyed yet still commanding. "Who are you?" Jack managed to regain his feet. She sat on her knees at the edge of the bed, the blanket thrown back revealing a soft green chemise. Her hair blazed as brightly as her eyes. "How did you get in here?" she stammered. A lump formed in her throat.

"They—they gave me the wrong key," Jack explained. "I'm in 3, and you're in 13—the guy downstairs thinks you're my wife—Why does he think that?" It was an absurd question, and he knew it the moment it left his lips. Rose stared at him. "What?" she said finally. The lilt in her voice was the same as the night they met.

"_That's_ what you said to her?" Celia burst out. Jack frowned. "Wait till it happens to you and see what you say."

"So, you just found her? Just received the wrong key by mistake and found her again?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "Why do you sound so shocked? After everything else I just told you that should fit right in."

"It's just so…" Celia was at a loss for words.

"Yeah, but it's too perfect not to be true."

Rose's head swam. "I don't understand," she said. "You…" She wrestled to settle on a single coherent though. What an incredible waste of time talking was! What words could possibly express all that she felt? Where did you come from? Where were you? Why didn't I find you? The answers wouldn't change anything, wouldn't bring back the time denied them, all seven weeks of it. The floor was cold against her bare feet; her chemise suddenly felt thin and shabby. She brushed her hands down the front, as if through touch alone she could restore herself to her former glory. She eyed Jack cautiously and waited for him to speak. He reached for her hand. His words came out in a hoarse whisper, and all she could make out was her name.

She fit into his arms as though they had been made with her in mind. He hugged her tightly, curling his hands around her waist. Her breath tickled his neck. "Jack," she murmured. "Jack, Jack." He took her face in his hands. "Why didn't I see you?" he asked. "There weren't that many…Where did you go?"

Celia was nearly at the edge of her seat. "Where had she gone?"

"She was in steerage, with me. She was just trying not to be found. Her name was on the survivor list right under mine," Jack explained. "But when they took my name there wasn't a list to look at yet."

They lay side by side, arms draped over each other. Jack idly played with Rose's curls. She smiled as she rubbed his shirt between her fingers. "Your clothes are so soft," she said. "They move… breathe. That's what I remembered most at first."

"My clothes?" he asked with a chuckle.

She nodded seriously. "I remembered what your shirt felt like in my hands, against my cheek." A light blush spread across her face. "How simple your clothes were." Jack cupped her cheek. "I remembered your laugh," he said.

"Your eyes."

"Your curls."

"Your voice."

They burst into a fit of giggles. "What are we doing?" Jack asked. She shrugged, tears of mirth forming in her eyes. "I'm not sure," she managed to choke out, "but I'm glad I borrowed your name."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I know it's been a long time, but I hope a few people are still interested in this one!**

She wanted to marry him at first. She supposed that was only natural, even if it wasn't the most dignified response to a good looking male boarder. Undignified it may have been, but it wasn't illogical. They were the same age. She owned two houses and 200 acres. She had a steady income. And he had a kind smile, eyes like the sky, and a child she was sure he couldn't handle on his own. He offered his hand in greeting, drawing himself up to his full height. She tried not to blush. Unsure whether she was ashamed of herself for reacting like a giddy schoolgirl or warmed by his fingers on hers, she responded with an almost curt "Hello, Mr. Dawson."

Cossette lingered a few steps behind him. The first thing Celia noticed was the blood red curls spilling down her back. Clean but clearly unkempt, Celia didn't need to ask if her mother would be joining them. She did anyway, curious as to what his response would be.

Now, she wasn't sure if pressing for more information had been the right thing to do. Jack studied his hands as if they could give him answers. His eyes were cloudy. "You'd think I would have more trouble telling this," he said. "I never have. But now that I am...it's nice."

"Nice?"

"Talking about it…her."

_Watching him tell this story is indescribable. His hands ring the teacup as easily as if he made it himself. He leans back in the chair and begins to speak, pausing at just the right moments. He was always a wonderful storyteller. I was there, and yet I can't help being enchanted by the tale. He doesn't know the whole story; he only knows his half. He will never know about the nights I stood shivering at the window, fighting off the certainty of my death while he slept with a pillow snuggled to his chest. I wouldn't tell him if I could. Why ruin his truth? He never ruined mine. _

_I know she wants him. Even if I didn't have the luxury of knowledge that comes with death I would know. Her desire for him radiates from her, and yet he doesn't notice. All these years alone and he still remains celibate as a monk. It isn't only the memory of me that stops him or Cosette. She understands more than she lets on, and he knows if he brought a woman to meet her…but he won't. It is a way of life for him now, as it was before. He smiles at the pretty women, makes the young girls blush and giggle, but there's a distance, even if he isn't trying to create one. Jack isn't the type to find being alone a burden. It frees him. _

"We didn't get married," Jack said. Ignoring Celia's shocked look he continued, "We wanted to do something else—something better."

She broke in. "What could be better for two people in love than marriage?"

"Being together without restraint, without the need for a legal blessing. We wanted to create a new kind of marriage, one where the only promise we made was to each other and we could leave each other as quickly as we'd come together," he explained.

"But what about the sin of living together unmarried?"

"I'm not sure sin is so easy to define or that our living together was one. Worse to remain apart, I think or to do something that we feared would eventually tear us apart."

"Why would marriage tear you apart?" Celia pressed. "Its purpose is to hold people together. Jealousy, infidelity, mismatched tempers—those things will tear us apart."

"Love will tear us apart," Jack said simply.

Celia stirred her tea. "What did you do then?"

"We hopped a train out of New York. Too cold and too much about the sinking going on."

They had enough money for two tickets to Arizona. The train pulled out of the station amid newspaper boys cries about the head of a Pittsburgh steel empire collecting a record breaking insurance claim on a diamond lost in the sinking of the _Titanic_. Jack had a copy of that newspaper. He bought it from the man next to him while Rose was sleeping. He didn't read the article; he just tucked the pages it was on away in his pocket and tossed the rest aside. It would be eight years before he would finally read it, the words faded and the photograph wearing away beneath the crease.

"What if I asked you to marry me?" The question came during the second week. Rose whipped her head around, too shocked to hide it. "What if you what?" she said. Hands in his pockets, Jack leaned against the wall. In that position he looked even more like a pretty young boy, like Romeo posing as a peasant in soft, worn clothes that hung off his body in just the right way so that the viewer sees only litheness and not a lack of muscle. "Asked you to marry me," he said.

Rose looked down at her hands. The last manicure had almost worn away completely, and her nails were beginning to grow long for the first time. She twisted her fingers together. "I would say no," she said finally.

_One would think I would regret my answer now, but I don't. It was the right choice. I loved him. I love him still. _

He nodded slowly. "Alright."

"I love you," she said quickly. She moved toward him. "But I can't…" He let her take his hands. "Not now. Maybe in the future I would say yes, but it's too soon." Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. "You don't have to," he said.

"But I have to explain," she insisted. "You deserve that." She flattened her palms against his. "I'm not sure I can marry anyone," she said. "I could walk away from the only life I've ever known to be with you. I can stay with you. I can spend every night in your arms." A faint blush spread across his cheeks. She couldn't help but smile. "I can do all of that, but I cannot marry you. The permanence of it is too overwhelming even when it's you asking." She caressed his face. "If I were to marry anyone, it would be you," she said softly.

He laid his hand over hers. "What should we do then?" he asked.

"We go on as we have been," she answered. "We don't need the blessing of the law or anyone else. Loving each other is enough, isn't it? Neither of us have anything to protect but our hearts. What's the difference between my making a promise to you alone and my making a promise that needs a witness and a signature? If it needs to be seen by someone else to make it valid, how much can I truly mean it?"

Keeping his eyes on hers, Jack kissed her hands. "I promise to protect your heart," he said. She kissed his fingertips. "I promise to protect yours," she said.

"And that's how we were married," Jack said, stirring his tea. Celia blinked slowly, as if coming out of a trance. "I would hardly use the word marriage to describe that," she said. Jack took a sip, dismissing her words with his silence. Through the window he saw the sun beginning to set. He couldn't help but wish for a sheet of paper and pastel crayons. "I don't do landscapes very well," he said. "I try, but something's always missing. I like them. The colors…" He gave his tea another slow stir, more to move his hands than to help further settle any added ingredients. Celia watched him through her lashes, wondering where his thoughts would lead next.

He sighed. "Where was I?" he asked, suddenly more alert than ever.

"You had just gotten married."

"Oh yeah." He settled back in his chair. "She didn't stop using my name, obviously. As far as other people were concerned, we were married in the usual sense. I know a part of her didn't want that, but it was easier. The only thing I ever worried about as far as our not being married was what might happen if they found us…."

Jack doubted Cal was looking for Rose. Why would he? Officially, she was listed among the dead, and he had no reason to suspect that wasn't true. Unless, of course, he somehow stumbled across the "Rose Dawson" listed among the third class survivors, but that would require not only reading the list, but also knowing Rose Dawson hadn't existed before the list was created. Jack felt certain neither of those things were likely to happen. If Rose harbored any fears about being discovered she didn't show it. She didn't seem to have any fears at all; the weight in her eyes was gone.

And yet there were times when he wondered just what would happen if Cal were to appear. What could he actually do, short of dragging Rose back with him? Living with a man without marrying him, though highly disapproved of, was not illegal. Fiancées were not bound by any law. Rose could do as she pleased. And yet there were times when he couldn't sleep and all he could think was _What if…?_ It seemed too incredible to believe that they were the only two people capable of breaking apart their relationship.

Rose sighed happily in her sleep. Pressing herself closer to him, she threw an arm over his chest. Slowly, he played with her curls and waited for sleep to come.

…

The weeks became months. Jack found divided his days between odd jobs and trying to sell a few drawings. Young lovers were, as always, his best customers. They always wanted a portrait of their adored one and were willing to pay the dime he asked, though sometimes, more often than he cared to admit, he refused to take the money. He would just have to work twice as hard to make up for it, he reasoned, and that wasn't such a difficult thing to do. He was young and strong; there wasn't much he couldn't do if he put his hand to it. A childhood spent helping on the farm during the summer and hunting during the winter had given him not only a love for the outdoors, but also a sharp eye and deft hands, not to mention patience. It was those years of work after all, of waiting for the seed to finally sprout or the fish to tug at the line, which gave him the dedication to keep pursuing his art even before he had Rose's unwavering encouragement.

Rose didn't hesitate before throwing herself into the world of working women. She couldn't type, the boiling point of water existed for her only in theory, and she didn't have the proper references to become a teacher or even private tutor. So, despite Jack's misgivings, she found a factory job, where to not only her fellow workers' surprise but also her own, she succeeded.

They met at the corner and walked home together every evening. Jack came from one direction, drawings tucked under his arm, change jingling cheerfully in his pocket, and Rose came from the other, exhausted but flushed with triumph. "Look," she said, holding out her hand. "My first blister."

Jack whistled. "It's a big one." He gently poked the swollen patch on her palm. "It'll become a callous if you're not careful," he said.

"I shouldn't be so excited by that," she said, laughing nervously. "But I can't help it." He eyed her curiously. "Don't look at me like I'm crazy," she said. "This proves my hands really are useful. I can actually do something with them!"

"What if I don't like rough, calloused hands on you?" he teased.

"I didn't say I would let them go completely. Yours aren't rough, and you've certainly done more work than I have."

Celia shook her head. "Imagine being thrilled about a blister," she said.

"Well, it was her first," Jack replied. "It was very important."

Celia fixed him with a no-nonsense gaze. "Do you remember your first blister?"

Jack yawned. "You just have to wait until tomorrow for the rest," he said. Celia frowned. "It's only seven," she said. His mouth turned up at the corners. "Maybe I can stay up a little longer," he admitted. "But it's time to bring Cosette inside for the night."

"I don't understand why you let that child run around outside after dark," Celia scolded, following him to the door.

"Have you learned nothing from my story so far?"


End file.
